


Loose Vicarious

by frooit



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Illness, M/M, Medicine, One Shot, Short, Twincest, mmm, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's sick again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Vicarious

If there's anything Murphy's susceptible to it's a common cold. Common sore throat, common lag, common haze. The cough, the headache, the sinus tango; sneeze and wince. It's common and it comes with a fever. Only it was more than just common for him when he was a boy. Back in Ireland, cold days and wet air--remembers more days stuck in bed than not. Often sick at ten, as a teenager, less and less later and maybe he'd just grown out of it, sure. But. Most everyone has an immune system (you always have your exceptions), everyone's body will adjust, it just took Murphy's longer, developed slower, and isn't design fucking glorious. Thank the Creator. Somehow, _somehow_ he didn't come out of it bitter.

A new environment does a number on one's body. Boston. America. Land of the--that's not the reason they're there. First how-many-days not living out of hotel rooms and here he is holding a fever. One hundred and what, Connor? The one raising his eyebrows and feeling his forehead, warm, damp (makes his stomach twist just by remembering how many times Ma did that). Doesn't need anyone to tell him he's sick but Connor does anyway. _As a fuckin' dog_ and shoves him back, sprawling sideways over his mattress (some luck these were left propped up on the landing walls).

 _Yeah, and stay home and tend to my every needs._ Breath wafty hot. He's wearing his coat already. Already, already. Just the five minutes before going to work (oh fuck _walking_ ) and Connor pulls the rank of concerned brother. See current situation. Current full-body sweat.

"Oh fuckin' right, I'm stayin' here just for your arse. To fetch you what? We haven't got anything."

Murphy groans and rolls onto his side, just enough, or maybe less, to see his brother's face.

"Go work for the Man, Connor," he's sitting back up (as if _that_ wasn't a bad idea; swing of an ache already), and rifles through his coat pockets for his cigarettes. "And leave your poor sick brother here to bore himself to death."

"I'll be sure to pray for ya."

Mock grin around a crooked cigarette. "You're so kind."

"Aye." Connor's getting his coat, his crucifix. "See ya. Don't fuckin' leave."

"Ne me traite pas comme un enfant." Clippy French for a clippy statement.

_Don't treat me like a child._

"Ne pars pas."

_Don't leave._

And he doesn't.

 

He lies back, in fact, and smokes. In bed, like maybe he shouldn't but who's really there to care right now. Right not now. _Now's_ with Connor. Now's joking and touching and drinking and smoking and--This moment is inflicted purgatory. Doesn't have anything to do; nothing but feel like recycled shite and sleep, and think. Connor won't do a full work day, he'll be back sooner. Will come in doused in old sweat, old smells. Might shower, and might not. They'll end up together either way, good as new. Good as old. Murphy blows smoke out the side of his mouth. Coughs, wetly. Fuck. He's got a headache. Sudden stress and he's done with this being awake thing. Reaches over, dashes out his cigarette, cracked ashtray landed on the end of the table between their beds, and tries to sleep like that. Stretched out on his stomach.

It doesn't work.

Doesn't even think to take off his coat until he remembers what the back of Connor's looked like when he turned away, left. Door closing loosely. Cracked paint, cracked wood, cracked throat and Murphy coughs again. Slips an arm out of one sleeve and stops right there. Rush of blood through skin trying to battle, heal, burn out whatever illness this is. _Common cold_ : A viral infection characterized by inflammation of the mucous membranes lining the upper respiratory passages and usually accompanied by malaise, fever, chills, coughing, and sneezing. Good to know, isn't it. Makes you feel sick just by reading it.

Not having Connor around, to do whatever it is Connor does at any certain time Connor can do it, makes him focus (right on _in_ ) on how fucking shite he feels. Could describe this kind of headache in seven degrees of pain (the throb, the sting, the twinge, the stab, the--yeah). So think of something else, _think_. Fucking. And he snorts at himself (sinuses hot and stuffed and raw). But he does think: fucking. Fever feels like the 'throes' of sexual 'endeavor'. Connor does that. Gets his blood flowing, moving, nuclear.

Connor fucking him slow.

Ponder that.

Absolutely agonizing slow, slow fingers digging marks into hips, skin, holding, rolling, fisting blankets, fisting hair, controlled and voices low (groan, moan, calling names) fucking. Connor can... _Jesus_ , just. Tear him down. And he's got a hard-on. Let's not call it _sudden_ because he's been skirting it since this morning. Seriously. Slow-kissing Connor (slow fucking, too, see the connection) had him there, and then not, because, because... sickness. Could have gone on, _would_ have gone on, but then Connor was commenting about how he tasted and rolling away. _Taste like a fucken hangover there, Murph._

That does nothing for his sex life.

 

Fingers. Connor likes these fingers. Murphy's not quite sure he does, bites and chews and wrings them out. The situation of vanity, though, is hurled aside when you're wrapping them around your prick. No looking, or seeing, or appreciation aside from how they feel. How soft, warm, callused-hard are they. Would it surprise you that Connor's hands are different? Dramatically. All the difference in the world to make it better. _Better_. Cold-fever and arousal are a combustible combination, and it's probably not healthy, but he's not slowing. On his back now, with one arm free from his coat and one not. Connor's only been gone for ten minutes and look at this: wincing around the obvious and damp friction. Slow, slower, fuck, that's the headache pounding up behind his eyes, his throat tightening, hips rising, cock--

That's the door opening.

"Fuckin' Hell."

" _Connor_."

 

"I leave ya alone for fifteen fuckin' minutes..."

"Forgot something?" Voice thick from a number of things.

"As a matter of fact" he's leaning down and kissing him on the mouth, snaking a hand inside his coat pocket. "No smoking."

An annoyed noise from Murphy, a snort from Connor.

"No masturbating, either."

"Oh geez, Connor, ya might as well kill me."

"You're _sick_ , remember? Jesus. Why would ya want to."

Murphy's moment to snort, while pulling his coat off all the way and flopping back, arms out, spread eagle. He hasn't zipped his jeans back up, and tries his best to look whatever it is might make his brother stay. But Connor's walking back to the door, boot's a clunk-clunk, putting Murphy's pack of cigarettes into his own coat pocket, leaving his hand on it as he goes. Thoughtful. Looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself then says _I'm goin'_ , only...

 

If there's anything Connor's susceptible to it's his brother.

Times like this, he wants to kick himself for loving him (loving him too much, always having loved him, loving him this way). Five, six hours of work, and then he's back. No harm done, nothing a drink can't fix. It's not an entire day. It's simple. They'll have a little more money to their name, a little more comfort. But. A day out of it wouldn't do any harm either. It's not worth being away from Murphy, is it. And that answer's simple.

He tugs his coat off, drops it on the end of a chair, and nudges Murph over. The mattress sinks low, and Murphy just has to say, " _Ne pars pas_ ," then, voice scratching out over everything swollen on the inside. Connor curls the fingers of his hand around Murphy's prick, and doesn't.


End file.
